What else could he be? Where else but the humus beneath Could he have come from? The inhuman sprawl of his body, The breadth of his unseen anchors,How he sways in derecho winds after refusing shelter, How he is as still as a … Continue reading Frank Howard is a bur oak tree
Man named Boileryard, You have risen above things,But never shall you be aboveSlipping into the accent ofA tenement CatholicWho brawls over black bread,Who between bouts of daylight Wanders over the brick-strewn lotWhere the tobacconist’s burned down,Where the indigent defeated nowFuck like choleric … Continue reading A consideration of Boileryard Clarke followed swiftly by a reconsideration of Boileryard Clarke
When we ponder death, we console ourselves with the knowledge that we weren’t around 40, 50, 80 years prior and were not then troubled by that prevailing oblivion. Why, then, should future oblivion bedevil us? The poet Philip Larkin, among … Continue reading A poem about Max Scherzer’s 1926 funeral Mass in Chicago and a brief and unhelpful philosophical essay addressing why there’s such thing as a poem about the 1926 Chicago funeral Mass of Max Scherzer, who in reality is thankfully alive and well and was born in 1984
Survival is discovering you are out of stamps. Living is going to buy more and forgetting what else it is you need. Mayo Smith should have written it down. Mayo Smith should have written it all down. The great wheel … Continue reading Mayo Smith is aware of the years
You could not say Kevin Kiermaier’s eyes looked like the remembered Blue of your older sister’s nail polish remover, Towed from shelves, dutifully regretted, litigated — the fumes Of which smelled of camphor and surgery and sent a cancer Galloping … Continue reading Kevin Kiermaier’s Eyes Are a Certain Blue
The front leg bends back like a bough Before it snaps in a boy’s hands. The cleats stomp shallow hollows into the clay As the belt buckle rolls toward sundown. The elbow strokes the ribs, the bottom arm locks tetanus … Continue reading Ichiro’s Swing
Looking back, When you bounded into Sutter’s arms It seems too obvious an ascension Of a man who brushed his burst fingers against the endurable Only when he was ashamed. In the beery afterglow, Your words as simple as you … Continue reading For Darrell Porter
He pitched as though he were throwing fallen apples at a knothole. Then again, he threw fallen apples at a knothole As though he were throwing fallen apples at a knothole. For there is no mystery in the literal, no … Continue reading Rube Waddell Is Dying
In the upper reaches of a multipurpose stadium, Thunder has been set on fire. In these distant perches, This tent revival of hawks, Cheap of the dollar, rich of the possible, We are ransacking the hopes We hide beneath our … Continue reading Upon Viewing a Watermarked Photo of the 1972 World Series
I’m telling you, Simmons, those days! Your tresses plunged like the Bellwether stocks of the times. Like the necklines of those Who tottered for your notice. We shan’t survive these times, said wartime leaders! We shan’t survive Ted Simmons And … Continue reading Several exclamations regarding Ted Simmons
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